The God Machine

by Martin Caidin

  He had an apartment deep within a mountain, and was treated like a king. We considered him almost a national asset.

  He even liked the idea of working with a cybernetics brain. That, let me tell you, was one great hurdle for us to get over. Most people shied away from it. Manny didn't. "I've been in three wars and a half-dozen almost-wars," he explained with a philosophy born of having lived close to death for years.

  "There's nothing that contraption of yours can do to me that hasn't already been done. Let's go." As simple as that. And four bullets and assorted pieces of metal in his hide to affirm his convictions. We almost hugged him. Kim did!

  Only three of us were in the contact cubicle: Maurice Levy, Kim, and myself. The others, including Dr. Vollmer, under whose division these tests came, were content to leave the direct work with Kim so that he might be able to observe without any distractions.

  Levy relaxed in a comfortable leather chair, his feet propped up, his body comfortable. Atop his scalp were electrodes, glued directly to the skin. They were enough; we sighed with relief when we discovered it wouldn't be necessary to plant an electrode within the brain. Although it's painless and harmless, no one sits easily with the idea of a fine wire piercing his skull and penetrating his brain.

  Physically it's as easy as sliding on ice. Psychologically? No one likes it, especially when the finger points at them for the experiment.

  The electrodes had been patterned to pick up the alpha-wave patterns of Levy's brain. By themselves they weren't of sufficient energy to have tickled a gnat's fancy. So the impulses—the gross impulses, that is—fed from the electrodes on Levy's skull to an amplification system, or rather, a separation and amplification system. As the electrical output of Levy's brain came into the system, a computer distinguished the alpha-wave pattern. As fast as this separation was made, the alpha-wave pattern was amplified tremendously, something on the order of one million.

  From the amplification system the boosted alpha-wave pattern fanned out along three separate lines. One transmitted the alpha-wave signal directly to the input of the cybernetics organism. The second signal went into a recording-tape console, and the third appeared on our monitoring equipment. The alpha-wave pattern signal, when not being energized deliberately by Levy, appeared on an oscilloscope as a group of wavy lines, one line above the other, flowing rather evenly from left to right.

  When Levy switched to his mental interruptor mechanism and went into Morse-code transmission, the wavy pattern went through a continuing series of flashes, each equivalent to a dot or dash in the Morse sequence thought of by Levy. Another readout scope adjacent to the alpha-wave oscilloscope remained inactive except when Morse was being transmitted—white for Levy's signals and green for the return signals from 79.

  We could even listen to the exchange, although this was done more for political than for scientific purposes. Tom Smythe had become NSA's anchor man to smooth the ruffled feathers of appropriations committees in Washington. Although the congressional teams that knew of Project 79 maintained strict silence on the program, and even restricted their number to a select few, they did insist upon complete knowledge of our progress.

  The sight of Maurice Levy seated in his leather chair, wires leading from his scalp to gleaming, complicated machinery, was an eerie thing to witness. If we subdued the lights in the contact cubicle, the oscilloscope and control panels added a flickering, flashing multicolored pattern to the cubicle that reflected off glass and metal. It was a dazzling production even if Levy didn't move an inch.

  Smythe took elaborate pains to describe the setup, to emphasize the brain-to-brain contact, and to let it be known that we considered this only the first act in a drama whose main lines were yet to be written. At the proper moment—the psychological key to the situation—he would say, "Listen; listen carefully . . ."in the best of stage tones. Then he would flick a switch, and the dit-dah clicks of Morse code, the exchange between human and machine, crackled from loudspeakers.

  It brought you right to the edge of your chair, and you found yourself—especially if your education in giant cybernetics organisms was of the science-fiction variety—experiencing cold fingers trickling down your back.

  Even though it smacked of show business, appropriations were the lifeblood of Project 79, and Tom Smythe had an obligation to fulfill. When he brought in his special visitors he programmed them thoroughly himself. He knew everything pertinent about the important visitor.

  If he had with him a senator from Oregon, then he arranged our tests to include Oregon. So long as Tom didn't interfere with the tests, and he made certain to avoid that pitfall, we didn't care what he asked us to program with Levy and 79.

  A list of questions supplied to Levy would also be supplied to the visitors in the survey room. Levy read off his questions from the equivalent of a television prompter, the words unfolding one by one before his eyes. As fast as he saw each word, he thought of the word, altering the alpha-wave pattern as he did so, and passing on a request for data to the computer through his own brain.

  Tom Smythe made certain the visitors, including the senator from Oregon, never saw the words unreeling on the prompter. Instead the senator would see the flashes off the oscilloscopes; standing by his side would be a technician who read aloud the questions as they went from Levy to 79.

  At that instant when Levy completed his programming—that is, ended his questions—the computer was ready to answer. But Tom felt he could get more mileage if some theatrical pauses were included. Levy's last instruction to the computer would then be for 79 to begin response in exactly three hundred seconds. During those five minutes Tom Smythe made whatever points he felt were necessary.

  He timed it so that he interrupted himself by noting the passing seconds and calling attention to the Morse-code output of the computer. And the answers would come back—answers relating to anticipated growth patterns; transportation problems; anything and everything relating to the senator's home state.

  And throughout the entire exchange Maurice Levy just . . . thought.

  16

  our celebration party was an absolute blast. More than a year of intensive work and suppressed doubts and black moments had vanished, not in a single puff of smoke, but during the last several weeks as our cybernetics brainchild came slowly but surely into being as a functional, thinking creature. Billions of dollars reaching a moment of justification was heady tonic, indeed, and we added to the giddiness of sweeping success with great quantities of good fellowship and a dazzling variety of potent mixtures that would have strained the imagination of any bartender I ever knew.

  No matter, no matter. Success had come in a glorious fashion that held even greater promise for the future. Maurice Levy— good old Manny!—proved a fitting star to crown our moment of success and achievement, and he was only the beginning. If we didn't take the time and effort for some old-fashioned back-slapping and crowing with one another to shake out the cobwebs of overwork . . . well, before too long we would have tightened like old leather thongs and frayed ourselves to uselessness.

  I picked up Kim early in the evening of the party, and she took my breath away in a white gown that seemed to have been lifted straight out of Roman days. She kissed me warmly. I don't think I had realized just how much effort she had put into the bio-cybernetics effort that culminated in our spectacular success with Levy. Now she was as ready as anyone else on the staff just to let loose somewhat. To me this meant a bash; to a woman, I learned quickly, it meant being able to dress and to act and to be treated as a woman in the manner that only a huge formal affair can provide.

  Well, off we went! The drive to the Great Western Hotel couldn't have been a better start. A light snow drifted from the skies to cover the countryside about us, but the road remained clear.

  Kim opened her window to feel the wintry air. She breathed deep, and sighed. "I'd almost forgotten how clean the night air can be out here, Steve."

  I nodded, listening with one ear to Kim and
the other to the radio that promised a heavy snowstorm. "Looks as if we might get in some skiing the next couple of days."

  "That would be nice."

  I glanced at her. "You might get the chance to break a leg, too. It's been a long time since you were on skis."

  "Too long," she answered. "I'm looking forward to it."

  "Hate to think of one of your legs in a cast," I sneered.

  "How romantic you can be!"

  We laughed together.

  "This should prove to be an interesting evening," she said after a few moments.

  My brows must have arched into peaks. She placed her hand on my leg and patted gently. "Not what you're thinking, lover. I'm talking about the party."

  I did my best to look disappointed.

  "How do you mean?"

  "When some of our people let loose it's, well, it can be rather unpredictable," she went on. "They don't drink very much, really, and tonight . . ." She giggled. "Old Dr. Vollmer gets positively, well, 'horny'

  would be about the best word for it."

  I stole a glance at her, saw she was smiling.

  "Some young ladies are going to be embarrassed tonight," she said.

  Nearly a hundred people had already arrived at the hotel. I left the car with a doorman, and, as proud as any young idiot on his first date, escorted Kim to the ballroom. On the way up the long curving stairs I thanked my own foresight in having called Barbara several days ago. I didn't want any nasty scenes with a confrontation of Kim and Barbara at our celebration ball, so I called Barbara and told her that because of office propriety and my having worked so long with Kim I simply had to be her escort for the evening.

  Barbara laughed at my discomfiture, the sound rippling like spring water through the telephone.

  "Steve, you darling," she broke in, "I'm way ahead of you. You're such a wonder, so worldly the scientist and so naive the man. Of course I didn't expect you to take me."

  I looked stupidly at the telephone in my hand. "You didn't?"

  "Of course not, honey," she said quickly. "I can add two and two just like anyone else."

  "Oh?" I didn't know what else to say.

  "You're in love with her, Steve."

  I met that one with silence.

  "Silly," she said to fill in the lapse. "I've known that for a long time."

  "You have?"

  "Steve"—she laughed suddenly—"no one owns anyone else. Not you, not me. I don't want it any other way. You're a dear, and I do appreciate your stricken conscience." Another ripple of laughter, and the phone went dead.

  I stood for a long time staring at the phone. What I learned every day about the two women in my life I thought I knew better than anyone else . . . Barbara knew about the way I felt about Kim, and yet .

  . .

  She was right, of course. About what she'd said, I mean. She was a sleek cat in the jungle of love, and allowed no ownership notions to get in the way. Unless they became a mutual desire. What a gal ...

  Barbara came to the party on the arm of a blond Lothario with rippling muscles and a faceful of Jack Armstrong teeth. I recognized him—Jim Clyde, with some servomechanisms outfit. Young engineer.

  Typical. Very bright and stupid at the same time, like most young engineers. But a magnificent stud if ever one walked into a room. As for Barbara . . . well, she wore a gown that could only be described as wicked for what it did to the people around her. Cut low enough with her high, thrusting breasts to expose the envy of just about every other woman in the place, and to bob the Adam's apples of even the old duffers among the crowd.

  Kim studied her carefully when Barbara entered with her stud in willing tow. And while she studied Barbara, I kept my eyes carefully on Kim.

  "You're sizing her up, Kim. I thought only young men were supposed to do that."

  She laughed. "Really, I had no idea . . ." Her words trailed off, and she moved closer to me, lowering her voice.

  "Honey, that is the most beautiful female I have seen in many a year. I don't blame you at all for . .

  ."

  "For what?" I growled.

  "Mm-mm," was all she would say.

  We looked again at Barbara, who was making her way straight to us with all the finesse of a battleship in a narrow channel.

  I gritted my teeth. "No," I said abruptly. "I am not going to say a damned thing. I was going to, but you'd probably tell me I was—"

  "What?"

  I nodded at Barbara and turned back to Kim. "Honey, she's quite a person, but she's not what you are."

  Kim's green eyes bored into mine.

  "You idiot." She laughed.

  I didn't return the laugh. For me this was serious. "She's a beautiful animal, Kim." I paused. "You're a beautiful woman."

  Her eyes widened, and for several moments she didn't say anything. Then suddenly she lifted to her toes and brushed her lips lightly against mine.

  "There's hope for you yet," she said quickly.

  I just knew it was going to be a grand evening with a start like that. . . .

  A couple of hours later I stood with Kim by a balcony window, watching the storm lay down a thickening blanket of white.

  "Someone said it would be over a foot deep by morning," I remarked.

  "Um-mm."

  "That's very clear."

  She sighed. "Uh-huh. I don't care if it's a million feet deep."

  "Well, that's interesting. What are you going to do with a million feet of snow?"

  "Silly." She learned her head on my shoulder. "I'm not going to do anything with it."

  "Oh. I'm glad to know that."

  "Um-mm."

  I looked at the snow; Kim was happy, and that was enough for me. It had me looking at the world through rose-colored glasses.

  "And you're not going to do anything with it, either."

  I snapped out of my drifting thoughts. "I'm not?"

  She shook her head. "Course not. Too dangerous to drive. I imagine the roads are very slippery."

  "Oh, sure. Very."

  "I'm glad you agree."

  "Uh-huh. Can't drive tonight. Dangerous and all that."

  "We'll stay here."

  I looked around the ballroom. "Be damned uncomfortable here for the rest of the night."

  "Idiot."

  I thought for a moment. "Oh," I said quietly.

  Of course . . .

  "Nice hotel."

  I was an idiot. "Very nice," I agreed.

  "Nice comfortable rooms," she said.

  Sure; with great big damned comfortable four-poster beds and—

  "Yeah," I mumbled.

  "We should have one."

  I heard my eyeballs click.

  One.

  One room, she said. One. Singular. Not rooms. Only one.

  For us.

  "I'll be right back. . . ."

  But we didn't get there for a long time. Selig Albracht got smashed. And started a hell of an uproar. With me.

  17

  I suppose it was inevitable. Sooner or later during the evening there had to be a busman's holiday.

  We couldn't stay away from shop talk. I could, but then I was fumbling around in my mind with amorous thoughts and the knowledge of not only where but with whom I'd spend the rest of the evening. I simply didn't give a damn for cybernetics organisms or tongue-loosened scientific fellows.

  Dr. Selig Albracht, our bearded captain at the helm of Heuristics, was smashed. There was no other way to say it; he was absolutely bombed. Right out of his mind.

  Now there was someone else in that same human skin and behind the familiar beard. An antagonist, a man for whom Project 79 was not quite the all-fired neural miracle we had created. Don't get me wrong. Selig Albracht was a great cybernetics man. But he had his convictions, and one of them was that every computer should know its place. He believed that: computers should have the status of well-disciplined and obedient dogs. At regular intervals they should be kicked mightily so that they would remember their place in life
.

  They worked for man. For us, all of us. They were tools. Wonderfully intricate and fancy electronic tools that could weave neural miracles. But on command, and through proper programming.

  The sum of it all was that Selig had built up a seething hate for the bio-cybernetics aspects of our program. He was opposed almost to the point of violent dissent to the work carried out in Bionics under the guidance of Dr. Vollmer. He felt we were plunging headlong down a path from which we could return only with assorted lumps and bruises. It was Selig Albracht's conviction—and I confess that a surprising number of scientists agreed with him—that we should impose specific limits upon the dependence we placed on our cybernetics systems. "Too much of a good thing," he muttered. He felt that man was giving up his God-given miracle of life, the substance from which we weave our dreams.

  "Man must never unshoulder the burden of his responsibilities, or else he'll bloody well forfeit its rewards," he warned us, his beard twitching beneath bloodshot, angry eyes. He glared around our group, Kim standing by me, Dr. Vollmer seated in a comfortable chair and not bothering to disguise his humorous disdain for Albracht. There were others, including Tom Smythe, who had suddenly become absolutely sober and attentive to every word in the increasing heat of the exchange. Old Professor Cartwright, the world-famous cyberneticist who had flown in from Princeton for the bio-cybernetics tests and demonstrations with Maurice Levy. And Dr. Walter Bockrath, the professor of social sciences at the University of Colorado. Some others whom I'd met and who walked the highest levels of our scientific world were there. But I hardly knew them and I ignored their presence; they listened quietly, obviously uninvited to join the exchange.

  "How far are you going to go with your blasted brain-to-brain contacts, Steve?" Selig shouted his words, unable to calm his bellowing, as if volume would lend even further credence to his beliefs. "What are you going to do when your wonderful test subjects, when Levy and all those who come after him, finally file like sheep into your contact cubicles, waiting patiently like dumb animals for the electrodes and the contacts to be made? What then, my brilliant young slayer of dragons?"